In the first place, there would be great _exaggeration_; and in the second, it's not my way to grind up my green griefs to make bread of.
But that poem exaggerates nothing--represents a condition from which the writer had already partly emerged, after the greatest suffering; the only time in which I have known what absolute _despair_ is.
Don't notice this when you write.
Write.

Take the love of us three.

Yes, I love you, dearest Isa, and shall for ever.
BA.
* * * * * _To Mrs.Martin_ 126 Via Felice, Rome: Friday, [about December 1860].
I have not had courage to write, my dearest friend, but you will not have been severe on me.

I have suffered very much--from suspense as well as from certainty.

If I could open my heart to you it would please me that your sympathy should see all; but I can't write, and I couldn't speak of that.